


Watson's Anatomy

by Maeerin



Series: Nobody Knows Where They Might End Up [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, John-centric, M/M, Medical Angst, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pining!John, Pining!Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2020-09-01 16:40:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20261215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maeerin/pseuds/Maeerin
Summary: Summary: John grieves for his friend and attempts to move on multiple times. But one year and four months after Sherlock’s presumed death, the detective comes back in a way unexpectedly. The pair struggle with mending their friendship, while the possibility of a new kind of partnership begins to emerge.





	1. Timeless

**Author's Note:**

> [Owen Hunt and Dr. Wyatt are inspired by characters of the same names from Shonda Rhymes’ Grey’s Anatomy]
> 
> Beginning of each chapter will be a quote from Grey's Anatomy, to set the tone.

WATSON’S ANATOMY

_ There's a saying—you won't know what you have until it’s gone. That’s true. But there is always something more…complicated than that. He's leaving now, thinking everything's lost for good. But it's not. It might be when he comes back, it might not—he doesn't know it yet. Life isn't just through his perspective, there's always another one—another story to be told. _

**CHAPTER 1: TIMELESS **

_ “Time takes pleasure in kicking our asses. For even the strongest of us it seems to play tricks. Slowing down… hovering… until it freezes. Leaving us stuck in a moment, unable to move in one direction or the other. Time flies. Time waits for no man. Time heals all wounds. All any of us wants is more time. Time to stand up. Time to grow up. Time to let go. Time." ~ Meredith Grey _

As John hurried to his fallen friend, everything around him slowed down, as if time ceased to exist. Nobody would let him through no matter how many times he begged. He collapsed to his knees as Sherlock stared at him, his eyes dull and empty—a vast wasteland that clenched at John’s heart—with thin lines of blood dripping down his face, as if he had been crying.

Sound pounded in John’s ears as he saw the motionless heap of his best friend being taken away from him. He didn’t even notice it had begun to rain, a drizzle drenching him to the core.

* * *

John entered their—was it his now? —flat in a kind of trance and made his way to their bathroom. He slouched against the wall, suddenly finding himself with no strength left to stand upright. As the minutes ticked by into hours, he slumped further down until he was lying on the floor and showed no sign of moving. The door was unlocked, as was the flat, so anyone could walk in. Anyone. Even Sherlock.

He would have found it appalling to sulk on the floor; the couch was much more suitable. But John couldn’t find the will to move, and any thoughts of Sherlock with his prominent cheekbones and dashing coat whirling around him, was too much at the moment. So John stayed still, lying on his side, and stared at chipping paint along the door frame. He didn’t want to think, but unfortunately, his mind had other ideas.

_ He observed the lanky figure sitting at the bar. The man was tall, even while sitting down, but not towering, and thin, but not sickly. Downing his second or third shot of tequila, John stood up and made his way to the bar, trying his best to hide the cane from obvious view.  _

_ “Damn those trust issues. I don’t have trust issues…” he thought. _

_ He took a seat at the bar and peered out of the corner of his eye, grinning to himself. The man next to him was almost too good to be real—he was quite attractive, but not overwhelmingly so. He was young but not too young; he looked mature enough and not desperate, uninterested in his surroundings in a way, but not in a distasteful sense. Otherwise, why would he be here? John thought. After ordering a pint of beer, John took a deep breath and spoke. _

_ “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” he said confidently. _

_ They talked for a bit, the man’s observation skills and confidence in said skills made him strikingly more attractive each time he spoke. And god, those cheekbones! _

_ “You’ll love me,” John jokingly replied. _

_ The man looked skeptical about the joke. “Slightly narcissistic as well.” _

_ John shrugged. “Just hiding my story.” _

_ The man scoffed softly. “I already know your story.” _

_ “Ok, so what’s yours then?” _

_ “What makes you think I have a story?” _

_ “Everyone has one.” _

_ The man shrugged. “I’m just a man in a pub.” _

_ “And I’m just a man in a pub.” John repeated, grinning. The man eyed him once again, looking down his body. Gulping the rest of his drink, he stood up, not quite towering over John, but the army doctor did have to tilt his chin up to look at the man. His eyes were captivating—an oceanic bliss swirling around with grey and light brown (almost gold) specks.  _

_ The man put his coat on gracefully along with a blue scarf, keeping his eyes locked with John’s.  _

_ “Coming?” _

_ “Oh god, yes.” _

There was a knock on the door, and then a pause. 

“John?” A concerned voice entered the room. It was Mrs. Hudson. John hadn’t said a word to her when he came back to the flat. The sorrow in her eyes would have made him crumple to the floor right then and there, so he had ignored her as best as he could as he went up the stairs.

John didn’t so much as blink when he registered her tone. He was on his side, his arm underneath his head, bent at the elbow and working as a temporary pillow. His other arm lay still over his waist; he was almost in full fetal position with his legs bent at the knee, though not pulled up tightly to his chest. He just laid there, recalling the past as a way to escape this nightmare of the present.

_ The pair shuffled into the darkened hallway of the taller man’s flat. (John hadn’t paid any attention to the flat, so when he had arrived to check it out a week later, the baroque style wallpaper stood out to him, yet it seemed to fit Sherlock’s personality.)  _

_ Drunk on alcohol and arousal, John grabbed Sherlock by his collar and pulled him into a sloppy kiss, but ended up hitting the man’s cheek rather hard instead. Embarrassed by the miss, he began to lean away, only to find the man’s long hands wrap around his waist and pull him closer. He kissed John’s neck, keeping their lips apart. John hoped they would meet as the night progressed.  _

_ They stumbled upstairs and into the sitting room, their hands not leaving the other’s body. John barely had a glimpse of the flat before he found himself on the sofa. Uncertainty flickered in the man’s eyes as he slowly lowered himself onto John. _

_ Gosh, he seemed so confident back at the pub… John thought. _

_ Taking hold of the man’s shoulders and wrapping his legs around him to hold him still, John twisted them around. Now he was on top, straddling the man’s thighs. The man’s eyes widened with surprise, but went along with it. _

_ “So you prefer to…” _

_ “Top, yeah,” John said, his tone radiating with confidence he hadn’t felt in himself in a long time. _

_ Sherlock’s pupils dilated and his face burned with arousal. “All right then. Take your pants off.”  _

John remembered that he couldn’t recall Sherlock’s name during that night, despite it being incredibly posh and not a name one would typically forget. He didn’t remember it in the morning until Sherlock re-introduced himself.

They never talked about that night—not even after John moved in—and John couldn’t help but to wonder why Sherlock had even asked him home that night. Now he would never know. 

There was another knock on the door, followed by another concerned voice, this time male.

“John? You all right?” Lestrade asked as gently as he was capable of. “Mrs. Hudson called; she said you haven’t made a sound in hours.”

_ So that’s how long it’s been. _ John had lost track of time, and yet, he didn’t make any attempt to answer. He listened closely, and heard Lestrade’s voice trail off, speaking to someone else.

* * *

A little while later, John heard soft murmuring outside the bathroom door. He listened closely, and then realized they were two female voices this time. 

“You don’t think he’ll hurt himself do you?” Mrs. Hudson asked calmly.

“No, I know my brother, he wouldn’t go that far this quickly,” a familiar voice provided.

The door slowly opened and then closed shut as someone walked in hesitantly. John couldn’t tell who it was. Sherlock would have been able to know right away from the way they walked in. Sherlock would have—.

John inhaled sharply to stop himself from thinking about him. He felt the person lay down next to him; he blinked the blurriness away and sharpened his focus on his sister.

“Hey, Johnny,” Harry murmured.

That caught his attention; she hadn’t called him that since they had started dating, and it had eventually become a comforting tool. He looked at her, confused. She must have understood because she answered his unasked question. 

“That inspector, Greg—he called me. He must have tracked down my number. He’s worried about you. We all are.”

John remained quiet; he made sure his eyes were focused on anything but her sympathetic face. It would just be too much. He knew he’d break down if he saw any of  _ that _ kind of emotion that didn’t belong on her face. So John focused on the wall behind her, yet he could still hear the emotion in her tone when she spoke.

“Why don’t we get you up, mhm? Change your clothes, have something to eat,” she suggested, her voice so gentle, John felt like he would break.

He remained silent, and pretended he didn’t hear her. 

She looked at him and sighed. “At least change, John. It’s not healthy. Would Sher—.”

“Don’t.” John’s voice was surprisingly stable, catching both of them off guard. Harry didn’t flinch, but her surprise was evident in her eyes.

John swallowed, preparing his next words so his voice wouldn’t crack. “Don’t say his name,” he managed to whisper.

Harry sighed. “I don’t know what to say to you,” she whispered.

John’s eyes flickered over her face and then back to the wall. He inhaled deeply before speaking, his voice remaining as stable as it could. 

“I feel like I’m moving in slow motion.” John gulped. “It’s like I’m stuck while everything around me just keeps moving. What I don’t understand is why. Why do I feel like this?”

Minutes ticked by in silence before Harry spoke. “Did you…were you two more than friends?” she asked carefully.

John’s eyes remained focused behind her, though he blinked furiously as he felt tears begin to well. “No,” he whispered, but he knew that’s not really what Harry asked.

“You loved him,” she stated softly. John inhaled sharply and closed his eyes for a moment before opening them and focusing on her.

“I…I don’t know when it happened. I don’t know how and I don’t know why. He’s my best—was my best friend. I kept my distance after—” He cut himself off and shook his head abruptly. “We were friends. Just friends.”

“Oh, John,” Harry whispered. 

“How did this happen? How did I end up here?” John’s voice finally cracked and his vision blurred with tears. One escaped and streamed down his face sideways until it dripped to the floor.

“He wouldn’t listen to me. After all we’ve been through, he wouldn’t even listen to what I had to say,” John continued as tears swelled up but he didn’t let them continue to fall. He sniffed and exhaled roughly before continuing. “It was like I didn’t even matter to him.”

“You did, John!” Harry exclaimed, her voice rising slightly. “I’ve read your blog and even though it was you who wrote it, I could tell by the way you described him that he cared for you.”

“Then why did he leave me?” John inquired before he could stop himself, his anger starting to rise. Harry didn’t respond and the two remained silent for several more minutes.

_ John and Sherlock had been watching in silence the news coverage of the apparent gas explosion, reporting twelve people killed. _

_ “So why is he playing this game with you? Does he want to be caught?” John had asked. _

_ “I think he wants to be distracted,” Sherlock had provided absentmindedly. _

_ Something had clicked in John’s mind and he responded with annoyance before he could stop himself. “Well you two would be very happy together.” _

_ Sherlock’s eyes had widened at that muttered comment. “Sorry, what?” _

_ John had snapped. “Lives are at stake, Sherlock. Actual  _ human _ lives. Do you even care about that at all?” _

_ “Will caring do anything to help save them?” Sherlock had challenged. _

_ “No,” John huffed with annoyance, his lips forming into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I shouldn’t even be surprised at this.” _

_ “At what?” Sherlock asked, although John had known he knew what he was talking about, so he had remained quiet and stared at the detective. _

_ Sherlock eyed him in silence. “I’ve disappointed you. You thought you could change me? Make me into a more ‘caring’ person. Well, I’d say I’m sorry to disappoint you, John, but I’m not. Caring is not an advantage.”  _

_ John had stood his ground, but couldn’t help wonder if that would be it. Will Sherlock never grow to care, even about him? _

_ It wasn’t until the next day, later at the pool, when he truly saw just how much Sherlock cared. And if John were honest with himself, Sherlock had appeared fearful of his own reactions. It was as if Sherlock was just scared to care rather than choosing not to. Instead, he pretended not to care at all. After all, caring was a disadvantage. _

Oh, how he realized that now. He had cared for Sherlock, had been his friend, and look where he was now: on the floor, in shock, crying over a man who didn’t return the sentiment.

“Do you want to get up, John?” Harry asked quietly.

John blinked at her and nodded. He slowly shifted until he was on all fours, and with her help, he slowly stood up.

“All right?”

John nodded again and together they left the bathroom. John swayed slightly as he walked down the hall to the sitting room. His mind felt numb; sound seemed to have been lowered, as he could only register the speaking voices as far away murmurs. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were waiting there; the sunset streamed into the room, looking as if everything was covered with burning embers.

“You hanging in there, John?” Lestrade asked. Mrs. Hudson walked forward and squeezed John’s shoulders before heading to the kitchen, probably to make him some tea. 

The weight of everything seemed to have grown, and before John could take another step forward, he plummeted to the ground, his mind succumbing into darkness, far away from the burning reality he was currently in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeless - Kate Havnevik   
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ynOhveYERIM


	2. Sleepless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Harry’s a nurse in this universe]

**CHAPTER 2: SLEEPLESS**

_ “Pain comes in all forms. The small twinge, a bit of soreness, the random pain, the normal pains we live with everyday. Then there is the kind of pain you can’t ignore. A level of pain so great that it blocks out everything else. Makes the rest of the world fade away. Until all we can think about is how much we hurt. How we manage our pain is up to us. Pain. We anesthetize, ride it out, embrace it, ignore it, and for some of us the best way to manage pain is to just push through it. “ ~ Meredith Grey _

One Month After The Fall.

John downed his second pint, half listening to Lestrade’s rant over the current rugby match. An uncomfortable silence fell between the two as the match ended; Lestrade ordered another pint despite it.

“So how’ve you been, John?” the inspector asked tentatively. John shrugged. He hadn’t been out much since the funeral, only running quick errands to the store and whatnot. In Greg’s eyes, he knew he looked like a mess. He hadn’t had a proper shave in days, possibly weeks—he couldn’t keep track—and he barely managed to sleep through the whole night—he hadn’t been having any nightmares; he just couldn’t fall into REM sleep. 

John had had one therapy session with Ella in the past month. He was scheduled for another one tomorrow morning, and he knew his therapist would want to schedule them on a regular basis for the next coming weeks. John couldn’t stand to think that far into the future; getting out of bed was hard enough.

A passing stranger would barely glance at him. He just felt grey, probably even looked grey as well. The world just went around him as he slowly disappeared. 

When John didn’t respond, Greg tried a different route. “Have you been back to work?”

John looked at him but didn’t say anything. Sher— _ he _ would have said the answer to that was obvious: of course John hasn’t been back to work. He worked at the place where his best friend killed himself. He hadn’t even called Sarah to let her know; now he just assumed he would be let go—to put it nicely—if he set foot in there. 

He shrugged again and decided he had had enough socializing for one night. There was only so much he could take at one time. Mumbling a ‘thanks’ for the drinks, John stood up from his chair, when a sudden pain shot through his right leg and he crumbled to the ground, face grimacing in pain. He must have yelped quite loudly, since Greg and a few other patrons of the bar were around him, helping him up.

“Jesus! John, are you alright?” Greg asked worriedly as he helped him to his feet. 

John leaned onto him for a moment, mumbling his gratitude to the others who had lent a hand. He took a cautious step forward, and fortunately the pain had resided, but he still felt shaken up.

He cleared his throat. “I’m fine, Greg, thanks. I’ll head back home now.” Before Greg could offer him any more help, John limped away, hunching his shoulders. 

John limped his way to Baker Street. He hadn’t been able to find somewhere else to live, yet. He had considered moving in with Harry until he could find a place, just to get him out of Baker Street. While he knew he needed to move on, he didn’t think he could handle Harry; he didn’t want to be coddled or watched over as if he would have a breakdown at any moment.

He made his way up the stairs and into the sitting room. The day hadn’t been a good one. He had woken up hearing violin notes echoing in the hall and stumbled downstairs, his hopes foolishly rising to great heights, only to find an empty room, the violin still resting on the table by the window. 

John didn’t have the energy to try to sleep, so he had slowly played out his morning routine. When the silence had grown too strong, he texted Greg for a drink, and now here he was, back in the flat, back to the silence.

He hung up his jacket and settled into his armchair. He stared into space for several minutes, before getting up to make a cup of tea. His phone rang and he answered it without much thought.

“Er, hello,” John answered in a rough whisper.

“Hi, John, it’s Sarah.” 

“Oh, hi, Sarah. I should have called—,” John weakly attempted to speak, but Sarah spoke over him regardless.

“It’s all right. Listen, I realize it must be, er, complicated to come back to work here. I spoke to a friend at the Royal London Hospital, and he’s willing to offer you a position, if you’d like.”

“That’d be great, Sarah,” John answered impassively. “Give me his number and I’ll call him.”

There was a pause. “Actually, he’s willing to interview you already. He asked me to see when you were free and schedule it.”

“Sure, all right, um, what time did he have in mind?”

“Is tomorrow afternoon fine?”

“Yeah, fine. Thanks, Sarah.” 

John hung up before he caught her response. This was it. Things were starting to go back to normal: a new job, new faces, maybe this will be what John needed. It had only been a month, but that was what others thought: it had been a month, and John hasn’t shown any sign of moving on. 

John sighed and poured his tea, blinking away the sudden tears when he realized he had prepared two cups.

* * *

John arrived at the Royal London Hospital early. His therapy session didn’t go so well. After he mentioned that he had a job interview, Ella asked him about moving out of the flat, but John hadn’t wanted to talk about it, which only concerned Ella even more. He had left only twenty minutes after the session started.

He didn’t have to wait long in the A&E, when a man about his age came up to him. 

“Dr. John Watson?”

John stood and shook the man’s hand, recognizing him. “Owen Hunt?”

“Long time no see,” he said, his Scottish accent booming in the empty room, and then he settled in the seat beside John.

Before the army doctor could speak, Owen began, getting straight to the point.

“Sarah told me what you have been going through. This is a job offer, but it’s also an incentive,” he began, not showing any sign of hesitance to how John might react to that.

John’s brows furrowed. “Incentive?”

“Sarah received a call from a Detective Inspector Lestrade. Even Mary reached out when it first happened, before she left for Switzerland, then I heard from Harry who told me how you were handling it. They’re all worried about you and hope this opportunity would be motivation, so to speak—”

“For me to live my life,” John finished for him, a spark of anger flickering in his mind. 

Owen regarded him for a moment. “Listen, John. You know me, I’m a military man as well; I suffered from PTSD for several months before seeking help—.”

“I don’t need any help,” John snapped. “I’ve seen friends die in front of me before. This isn’t any different.”

“Isn’t it though?” Owen asked, looking at John hard.

John looked away and sighed. “Thanks for the offer. I’ll think about it.” With that he left, his limp starting up again.

* * *

_ Thunder rolled through the clouds above John’s head, roaring deeply against the silent streets. Everything was grey; grey skies, grey buildings, and grey pedestrians passing briefly before vanishing as if they didn’t matter anymore. John was rooted on the spot, staring up onto the rooftop of St. Bart’s. There, in a muted Belstaff, stood Sherlock.  _

_ The detective was grey as well; his dark curls deeply contrasted with his grey skin and clothes. John opened his mouth to call out but no sound came out. Sherlock’s voice echoed from a distance, but it was cold and distant, not like the detective at all. _

_ “Goodbye, John.” _

No don’t _ — John thought; he wanted to speak but couldn’t form any words. A pain clenched in his chest, making it difficult to breath. He tried to step forward but found his feet locked in place. His breathing grew more and more difficult; his throat tightened and his eyes began to blur. His fists unconsciously clenched at his sides.  _

_ Time suddenly paused. People were frozen in their walk, their hair still in the middle of being blown by the wind. John couldn’t move, not even his eyes. They were fixated on Sherlock’s form, his coat still blowing in the wind. _

_ He watched in horror as Sherlock dropped his phone, spread his arms out like wings, and fell. _

_ A loud crack echoed in sync with a roar of thunder. John’s surroundings shifted around him, and within seconds, Sherlock’s broken body was right in front of him. Everything remained grey, apart from Sherlock’s eyes: a muted oceanic swirl of greens and blues, unfocused and motionless—and the red blood seeping from Sherlock’s head and mouth, swirling around the grey, reddening John’s vision. _

_ He tried to move again but couldn’t; he was frozen while he screamed internally. Sounds suddenly rushed around him. People around him unfroze, headed to their original destinations. The noise intensified; a low scream echoed from the thunder, triggering a painful clench in John’s chest. Water was streaming down, but when he looked around, he couldn’t find the source. _

_ He looked up to the sky but his face remained dry. When he looked back down at his fallen friend, the water returned, streaming down his face, tasting rather salty. _

_ A heart-wrenching scream invaded the storm above John’s head, jolting him back to reality. _

John bolted upright in his bed, tangled among the sweat-sodden sheets. His face was wet, but he didn’t bother wiping the tears away, or even acknowledging them. Instead, a hand shot up and covered his mouth as a sob escaped. He managed to muffle it and he blinked rapidly to prevent any more tears to fall.

John inhaled deeply for several minutes, desperately trying to keep the panic attack at bay, but it was already too late.

His breathing grew short and quick; he pulled his knees to his chest and anxiously tried to rock himself to calm down, though he knew it wouldn’t work. He needed Sherlock. 

The detective had helped that time after the pool confrontation with Moriarty, and then other times when John had had nightmares of Afghanistan, Sherlock would play the violin to calm him down. 

An absurd idea popped into his head, and suddenly he felt he had to do it. Without thinking twice, John grabbed his dressing gown and slowly stepped out of his bedroom. He made his way down the steps, taking in deep breaths, slowly putting his anxiety at rest.

John made it to the front door, and with only a second of hesitation, he opened it and began to run.

He ran as fast as he could through the pouring rain; his leg throbbing. He was drenched within minutes, but he kept going until he finally reached his destination, exhaustion ripping through his lungs as he gasped for breath.

John limped further into the yard, and before he could reach his final destination, he slumped onto the wet dirt. He crawled the rest of the way, finally resting his damp body against Sherlock’s headstone. 

* * *

John shivered awake to a foggy morning; he was curled up on the ground, his back against Sherlock’s gravestone. It took him a moment to realize there were people around him; a blanket had been draped over him and flashing police lights glared dimly against the morning fog.

“John? John, can you hear me?” a concerned voice said from above.

John blinked his eyes opened and saw Greg kneeling down beside him, a paramedic hovering behind him. John opened his mouth to respond, but only a moan escaped his lips. 

“We need to get you to the hospital,” Greg explained, nodding to the paramedic and another as they stepped closer to the army doctor.

John shook his head roughly and attempted to get up, only to shiver harshly from the cold. “No I’m—fine…” he managed to croak, only to shudder and clench his teeth.

“You practically blue, John,” Greg explained bluntly. “You’re going to the hospital.”

John couldn’t pull much of a fight at Greg’s tone, even if he was in better condition. He didn’t put much effort in shrugging the medics off as they helped him up and placed him on a stretcher. Once they had him situated, he looked at Greg again, wondering how he knew to look for him.

“Mrs. Hudson called me after she had heard you last night,” the inspector informed. 

John looked at him. “I tried to…leave quietly,” he whispered weakly.

Greg remained silent, looking at John with sympathy. “I’ll see you back at the hospital.”

The paramedics placed John in the ambulance, but before they went to the front, Greg pulled the driver aside.

“Take him to the Royal Hospital. Avoid St. Bart’s.” 

* * *

John shifted in and out of consciousness throughout the morning, unaware at first where he was. When he had realized he was in a hospital, and had seen Harry’s face peering down at him, he didn’t have the energy to react. He also remembered Greg showing up in the graveyard, and again later in the hospital.

John couldn’t recall why he went to the graveyard, and cringed when he tried. He felt ashamed and mortified, and just wanted to go home but it seemed like the doctors were purposely keeping him longer than necessary.

Afternoon light filtered in from the window, streaming into John’s eyes. He turned away and faced the door, opened to the hall teeming with doctors and patients—people with things to do while he, a man with no destination, laid in bed and grieved.

Two figures formed in John’s vision and walked into the room, their steps in unison. Harry led the way, with Owen behind her.

“How are you feeling, John?” she asked with great concern in her voice. It sent a cringe down John’s spine, his frustration increasing. 

“I’m fine. I just want to go home now.”

“Well, you aren’t quite ready—.”

“Harry, please just…” John’s throat constricted suddenly and he choked; he blinked hard, forbidding the tears threatening to spill. “Just clear me and discharge me. Please,” he said roughly.

“John, you’re a doctor. You know what happened to you has raised some red flags. We can’t just let you go; we…” She hesitated and looked at Owen, who continued for her.

“We’ve recommended a psych evaluation,” he started. John huffed with annoyance and looked away. Owen continued. “You won’t have to be committed, but we strongly recommend you attend a therapy session before you go, and schedule one a couple times a week for the next few months—.”

“I’m not crazy!” John snapped. “I’m not! I have a therapist—.”

“I know, but I know one who deals with this kind of…issue. I managed to contact her so she can schedule you in twice a week.” Owen stepped forward and met his eyes with John. “Dr. Wyatt is known among other psychiatrists and specializes in trauma. I went to her months after I came back from Afghanistan, and wished I had gone sooner. I know she can help you.”

John swallowed tightly and clenched his jaw. He held eye contact for a moment longer and then looked away from the two. “I guess I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

“You always do, John. It’s your choice,” Harry assured him.

John turned his head away and slowly nodded. 

* * *

John sat still on the sofa, on the side closest to the door, legs in front and feet flat on the floor, one arm in his lap, the other on the arm of the sofa. He was silent, his lips firmly closed; his back was relaxed but his shoulders were tensed, as were his legs, as if he was prepared to leave at any moment. He stared down the woman sitting across from him.

“Why are you here, Dr. Watson?” Katherine Wyatt asked.

John didn’t so much as flinch; he kept his gaze steady, his face blank and withdrawn.

“We won’t get to the bottom of this, John, unless you start speaking.”

John still didn’t respond.

Thirty minutes passed before Dr. Wyatt tried again.

“How are you sleeping?” she asked. 

John shrugged this time, but he didn’t say anything. It remained that way for the rest of the hour session. As soon as the clock ticked over from 2:59 to 3:00, John was on his feet and out the door. 

Thunder rolled in the distance, wind slowly picking up pace as rain splattered against the sidewalk, drenching the army doctor as he made his way back to Baker Street.

* * *

“So, how’ve you been?” Greg asked after he received his pint. John had already finished one pint while waiting for Lestrade to show up, and started on his second.

John took a long gulp, ignoring the concern on his friend’s face as Greg’s eyes swept curiously over him. He knew he still looked terrible, especially as he hadn’t shaved since he had been released from the hospital.

He shrugged. “Harry tried to have me committed . Or at least she wanted to, but has me going to therapy first,” he said bitterly, before chugging down the rest of his beer. He looked down his glass, not bothering with waiting for Greg to reply, and motioned for the bartender.

“I need something stronger. Three fingers of scotch.” The bartender nodded and soon provided the drink. John pushed aside his empty pint glass and took a steady gulp of the amber liquid.

The pair remained in silence until Lestrade finished his first pint and John ordered another scotch.

“He could’ve been more to me,” John slurred to the inspector.

Greg nodded absently, eyeing the fast emptying scotch. “Eh, mate, you want to take it easy—.”

“Fuck him,” John blurted out. “We could have…we could’ve been something, you know, even after that one night stand we could have had s-something, and he…threw it all away.” John finished his drink and then began to raise his hand for another. Greg gently took his hand and lowered it, without any protest from John. Slowly, Greg lifted out of his seat, helping him get his feet underneath him and lead him towards the door.

“C’mon. Let’s get you home.”

“One night, Greg,” John slurred as he leaned against the other man for support. “It was-s only a one night s-stand, but it was everything to m-me.”

“Uh-huh—” John felt Greg tense beside him and thought dimly that he might have said too much. “Hold on, you had sex with Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, pausing in his tracks.

At the sound of Sherlock’s name, John flinched. “That’s how we met,” he confirmed. Now that he had started talking about it, he didn’t know how to stop. “Took him a bit persuading to allow me to move in after, but eventually…he gave in. And you know what—.” John paused as they stepped outside into the cool night air. “I don’t know why. He seemed like he knows what he wants, even after just one night…and he would refuse what he doesn’t. I mean, he agreed to have sex with me. So he didn’t want me, and then he did, then he didn’t,” John rambled, not even sure if what he was saying made any sense.“Do you know, Greg? Do you know why Sher—.”

Suddenly John keeled over and vomited into the street. The few people passing hurried past them without a care; Greg awkwardly patted his back as he groaned and retched again. John kneeled down and pressed his forehead against the sidewalk. . He was sobbing, but no tears were falling down his face. He wanted to cry, to let it all out, but all he could do was breathe heavily in ragged breaths, his eyes tearless and dry. Greg allowed him a minute like this before he picked John back up.

“C’mon, you’ll sleep it off,” he mumbled to John, and headed toward Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sleepless - Kate Havnevik 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xd4EE-0yLuk


	3. Send Me On My Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> each chapter title is a song and a reference to the Grey's Anatomy inspiration
> 
> this one is Send Me On My Way by Rusted Root
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RuV2agQPgps

**CHAPTER 3: SEND ME ON MY WAY**

_ “How do you know when how much is too much? Too much too soon? Too much information? Too much fun? Too much love? Too much to ask? And when is it all just too much to bear?” ~ Meredith Grey _

John sat still in the dull chair, facing his therapist with a blank face. 

“Have you gotten a job yet?” Katherine asked calmly. John just shook his head.

“But you’ve been offered one, yes?”

“Owen Hunt told you,” he stated rather than asking for confirmation.

“I don’t talk about my patients outside this room, John,” she replied softly. John scoffed.

The silence went on for five minutes, John had counted, and was surprised; usually she waited ten, but John supposed it was because it had been months without any progress.

“John.” She leaned forward and met the army doctor’s eyes. “It’s been four months since Sherlock died.” John flinched at the man’s name, but allowed her to continue, which he would consider progress, since a few sessions ago he would have immediately left the moment the syllable left her mouth.

“You need to move on. Accept the job, then maybe move out of the flat. At least you’ll have something to do. The smallest change can help. Adopt a new routine, and eventually, you can deal with your feelings, and understand them.” She leaned back in her seat and looked over her notes.

“Are you still having trouble sleeping?” She asked when John hadn’t responded.

John shifted in his seat—his first movement of this session—and glanced at the clock: only half an hour left. He looked back to his psychiatrist and spoke, his tone blunt and almost harsh.

“Not a wink.”

Dr. Wyatt nodded. “I’ll prescribe you something that’ll help. Sleep and rest will make you feel better, give you energy for your new job.” She handed him the prescription form; he took it without a word.

“One step at a time, John. This can be the next one.”

John just nodded, and then stood up and limped towards the door. 

“We still have half an hour left,” she called back. John turned his head to face her. 

“We’re done for today. See you next week.” Then he left. 

* * *

John sat on the edge of his bed, his ankles crossed and his back ramrod straight. He twirled his phone in his hands, and eventually placed the call.

“Owen Hunt.” the voice on the phone greeted.

“Uh, hi Owen, it’s John. John Watson.”

“John! How are you?”

“Fine. I was thinking about that job offer, and I’d like to take it, if it’s still available.”

“Of course. We’ll be glad to have you. When can you start?”

“Can I come by today? I’d like to start as early as I can.”

“Sure thing. See you in a bit.”

“Thanks, bye.”

John hung up, and with a deep breath, he stood up and limped out of his room, the pill bottle he picked up the day before lying forgotten in the corner of his bedside table.

From that day on, John worked at least twelve hour shifts, six days a week, taking in extra shifts whenever someone had a wedding to attend or a vacation they desperately needed. He went to the hospital, then back to Baker Street, his timing almost always on his side, almost always missing Mrs. Hudson. He went out to the pub on his days off, not always getting drunk, and sometimes meeting with Greg or Mike. To a passerby, John would seem like a workaholic, but to Greg and Mike, to Harry, to Owen, and even to Mycroft Holmes watching him from a distance, he was just a man grieving and trying, for the first time, to move on with his life.

* * *

One Year After The Fall.

John walked stiffly through the damp grass. It had just turned midnight, the fog over London thick and eerie. John thought it was appropriate on a day like this.

John had decided to visit his friend’s grave after he left the hospital, since his last shift had been tense…more so than usual. A young man had been brought in, his head a mop of curly black hair; he had overdosed as a suicide attempt. It was too much for John, and Owen had noticed. John was allowed to leave early, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, nor would he want to touch the pill bottle that was collecting dust in his desk drawer.

John stopped in front of the black headstone, keeping his face as blank as possible. He leaned forward and placed the assortment of flowers he had brought against the stone.

“These are from Mrs. Hudson…she persuaded me to bring them when I came by because it’s…” John trailed off and changed direction. “Anyway, it didn’t take much to persuade me to bring these… although, you’d probably turn your nose up at them, if you were…” John trailed off again, and looked around awkwardly. Figures of people were hovering far off in the distance, but other than that there wasn’t another soul around.

“So…” John stared at the grave. “I got a job quite a few months ago—at the hospital where Harry works. I couldn’t go back to St. Bart’s…um, I’ve been mostly working. I still live at Baker Street, haven’t found a new place yet…I haven’t updated my blog—our blog, well it was mine but about…us. Anyway, I’m not sure if I will be continuing with it. My therapist said whatever I decide is up to me, and it will set the future to how I will move on…I don’t know what she’s going on about half the time.” John chuckled, though it was plainly humorless. Suddenly feeling choked up, John sniffed and wiped his watery eyes, forbidding any tears to fall.

“I’m going to go now. I don’t think I’ll come back anytime soon. Um…so yeah. Goodbye Sher—bye.”

John turned on his heel and straightened his back as he limped away through the night fog.

He headed home, taking his time, wandering the streets he used to run chasing after Sherlock, his head full of memories. He didn’t reach Baker Street until the sun was starting to rise. He quietly went up the stairs, and went straight to the kitchen and turned on the kettle.

He was left alone with his tea and thoughts well through the morning. By his fourth cup of tea he was beginning to think he might need something stronger to make it through the day. He was just getting up to grab a bottle of scotch when the door opened below, and Greg Lestrade’s voice could be heard greeting Mrs. Hudson and heading straight up the stairs without a pause.

“Greg.” John greeted him, shaking his hand as Greg huffed like he had run there from NSY. “What, er, what’s going on?”

“Have you seen the papers this morning?” the inspector breathed heavily.

John furrowed his brows. “No, I haven’t. Why?” Greg hesitated and motioned for John to sit back down. He pulled a chair from the table and took a seat, catching his breath.

“John…” Greg began cautiously. John was starting to feel annoyed.

“Greg, just say it. I can handle it,” he said with a stable voice, and met the man’s eyes and grinned weakly—the best he could.

Greg sighed and continued, holding John’s gaze. “Sherlock’s grave has been dug up. The coffin was left open and his body’s missing.”

John stared at him and blinked. He suddenly let out a giggle, and before Greg could continue, the giggles turned into hysterical laughter. He laughed for several seconds as the inspector awkwardly waited it out.

When the laughter eventually subsided, John stood up and headed to the kitchen, still chuckling to himself. He poured himself a generous amount of scotch and silently offered one to Lestrade. The man shook his head once; John put the alcohol away and came back to his chair.

He wasn’t laughing anymore—his face had fallen tremendously as he sipped his drink.

“That’s impossible,” John finally said. “I was just there around midnight last night.”

Greg perked up. “There were no witnesses, but it must have been after midnight then, after you left.”

“I saw two, maybe three figures away in the distance. Couldn’t give you a description though, but I did see something.”

“Well, er, thanks.” Lestrade paused. “I have to get back to work but I’ll let you know when we have something.”

John only nodded, taking another sip of the strong liquid. Greg hesitated by the door. “Take care of yourself, John. We will find these bastards.” He waited by the door, presumably for a response, but John remained quiet, so he took his leave.

John sat very still—almost catatonic—in his chair, one hand holding his glass and the other clenched into a tight fist, clenching open and close over his lap. He squinted his eyes, but nothing happened. He closed them tightly, but still, no tears.

“Dammit,” John whispered, his voice cracking, and yet, no tears.

John stayed like that for the rest of the day, once in a while refilling his glass; eventually he switched to water, and then it was midnight again, and John headed upstairs to his bedroom. He dressed in his pajamas and got into bed, somehow falling into a deep sleep.

_ The lights flickered above John’s head, and the Royal Hospital’s A&E formed in front of him. It was empty, not a soul around. John breathed heavily and walked past the main desk towards the entrance. He pulled the door to open it but it wouldn’t budge. _

_ Suddenly, dirt began spilling from underneath the door. John gasped and turned around but froze. There was dirt everywhere; John couldn’t get around it. _

_ “John.” _

_ John whipped around. Sherlock was facing him—he was wearing his Belstaff coat, blue scarf, purple shirt, and black trousers. But his face was terrifying. Bone stuck out of his chin and cheeks; part of his head was crushed in, deforming his head, his skin was tight and rotting away. One eye socket was empty—an empty void that reminded John of the last time he saw those eyes. The other eye was grey and unfocused. The rotting corpse of the consulting detective reached out towards John, his hand mere bone _

_ “Take my hand, John,” the corpse said. _

_ John shook his head rapidly and stepped back, only to lose his footing and fall into a hole of dirt, the corpse of Sherlock looking down onto him. Dirt was falling in, choking John and stinging his eyes. _

_ “Sherlock! Help me!” John screamed, his need for air increasing. Sherlock shook his head this time. _

_ “I can’t. I’m dead.” _

_ John screamed and thrashed, choking for air, until he awoke suddenly, gasping a lungful of air back in reality. _

John sat up and held himself still in his bed, his sheets tangled up around him, clinging to his sweaty body. His chest heaved, the silence ringing in his ears.

After several minutes, John silently dressed and headed downstairs. John slowly paced around for a couple moments, before heading into the kitchen. He turned on the kettle and pulled down a teacup.

Thinking it over briefly, John turned the kettle off and poured himself a glass of scotch instead, downing it and pouring himself another. And then another.

From then on, John drank a lot whenever he had a nightmare. He never once went to work drunk, although he was hungover more times than not, which caused rumors to spread around. Other doctors and hospital employees started calling him an alcoholic, but he figured it could be worse. Whenever a patient would come in after attempting suicide, or anything reminding him of Sherlock, John would panic or zone out, and become silent for the rest of the day.

John was stubborn, however, and never admitted to having a problem. He kept himself at bay from falling down a rabbit hole like his sister had done years ago. Only once did he find himself staring at the place where he kept his gun, and when he realized it, he took an extra shift, working himself hard until the image left his mind. A handful of times John found himself staring at the bottle of pills in his drawer, tempted by the guaranteed numbness he’d feel if he took a recommended dose. Sleep was hard to come by, and only once did he give in. After it wore off, he threw the rest of the pills away, only to pick up a refill. He left them his drawer, still in the prescription bag. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are gold and I am Smaug :)


	4. Lean On Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading this! and for being patient!

**Chapter 4: Lean On Me**

_ “They hit you out of nowhere. When bad things come, they come suddenly, without warning. We rarely get to see the catastrophe coming, no matter how well we try to prepare for it. ... We do our very best, but sometimes it's just not enough. We buckle our seatbelts, we wear a helmet, we stick to the lighted paths, and we try to be safe. We try so hard to protect ourselves, but it doesn't make a damn bit of difference. ‘Cause when the bad things come, they come out of nowhere. The bad things come suddenly, with no warning. But we forget that sometimes that's how the good things come, too.” ~ Meredith Grey _

It was early in the morning when John arrived at the hospital. He preferred it that way. The emergency room was quiet, with a few people finishing their overnight shifts. Owen was already there too, focused on paperwork. He glanced up a John and gave him a rough greeting, his usual way.

“John, want to take a look in room eight. Head gash, had a bit too much to drink and slipped on the curb.”

“Sure thing,” John replied as he took the patient's form. Owen went back to his paperwork, and then Lexie, one of the interns, appeared. 

“Good morning, Dr. Watson,” she said cheerfully, then faltered. “You...everything good?”

“Fine,” John said with force politeness.

“You look a bit rough,” Lexie remarked, then blushed. “Not that that’s bad, just you look good, for...I mean--.”

“Dr. Sloan, get me room four’s labs drawn,” Owen said without looking up.

Lexie muttered, “yes sir,” and with a quick smile to John, she left.

John focused really hard at the paperwork, feeling Owen’s eyes on him, and someone else’s--

“John!,” Harry greeted. “Flirting already today?”

“I’ve got a patient to see,” John said, and began to turn around when Harry caught his arm. 

“You look like shit. Rough night?”

John didn’t answer; he just gave her the look--the ‘don’t ask’ look--and walked away to room eight. He had had a rough night; he didn’t even want to think about it, or anything, really, except the patient in room eight. And getting some water.

John entered room eight, and glanced at the patient’s chart. Just a simple laceration on the forehead, a couple of stitches and he’ll be out of here.

He glanced up at the patient, who was grinning at him. 

_ Jesus H Roosevelt Christ! _

* * *

Eight hours earlier. 

_ John was dreaming again. But this time, there were only flashes of images, nothing concrete, but all the same: horrifying and sacred. Sherlock was there in their sitting room, playing his violin, then he was smiling at John. It was John’s favorite smile. But then, Sherlock wasn’t standing anymore, and he was on the bloody pavement, still and lifeless with no hint of a smile. It was raining--in the dream or in reality, John wasn’t sure-- and he could have sworn he saw a tear on Sherlock’s pale cheek, but it could have been the rain. _

_ The setting changed again. They were at a bar together, but they weren’t talking. It was just flashes of images: Sherlock’s smile, his eyes sparkling with arousal, then they were back in Sherlock’s bed, and John was feeling warm all over his body, until-- _

There was a loud bang, and John sat up, wide awake with sweat over his body, and an arousal growing in the pit of his abdomen. John groaned and wiped his face, frustrated. He reached over to his nightstand for the nearly empty bottle of scotch, and finished it in one swift gulp.

John sighed, and got out of bed. He had to be at the hospital in eight hours. It was...enough time, he decided, and without much thought, he changed his clothes and left the flat. By the time he was at a bar, it was packed. Weekend night, he supposed. He sat in the corner, and finished a beer and a glass of scotch quickly, and was tempted to move on to tequila. He knew he would be hungover for work, but nothing like an IV bag full of fluids wouldn’t help, if he needed it.

The night moved on, dimly and grey. He continued to drink until he was on the verge of complete drunkenness. By morning, he was lying face down in bed, naked. He blinked and checked his watch.  _ Shit, _ he thought. He had to be at work in half an hour. He rubbed his face, and groaned, a headache already forming. He turned around and sat up, glancing at his bed. But he wasn’t in his bed, he was in Sherlock’s. 

Reddening with disbelief, horror, and shame, John scrambled out of bed, aghast as well. He scrunched his eyes tightly, trying to piece together what happened last night. He must not have been that drunk, because he remembered pretty easily.

There was a man, tall with black hair, but…short. Not curly. They were talking, then...back at John’s flat, they…

“Jesus CHRIST!” John yelled and grabbed the closest thing to him--the lamp--and tossed it against the wall, shattering it. He sat down in a huff and bent his head down. 

He was definitely into it. He wished he couldn’t remember, christ, he wished he was too drunk to finish or to… 

John burned with embarrassment as he remembered. He had called the man ‘Sherlock’, while John was underneath him, his face in Sherlock’s pillow, breathing in stale scent of the detective as the stranger fucked him. It felt good at the time, John remembered. But after they both had finished, John remembered he started to cry, then sob, and the man left, uncomfortable but satisfied. John headed towards the bathroom and splashed his face with water. He had to be at work, which was all he needed to focus on now. Nothing else.

He hoped today would be busy, which was all the same weird for a doctor to be hoping for at a hospital. But John needed the day to just be like any other day. 

After he was dressed, he left Sherlock’s room without another look, and closed the door.

* * *

Back in room eight, there was the man from last night. Finn Cullen, according to his file.

Finn smirked, immediately recognizing John. “John. What a coincidence.”

John cleared his throat and forced himself to be professional. “Would you like a different doctor?”

Finn waved his hand dismissively. “No, it’s all right. I got this,” he pointed to his forehead where the gash was. “Right after I left. Missed the curb and feel right onto it.”

“Sorry you had to wait so long,” John said as he prepared to stitch up the man’s wound.

“Not at all. I just got here about an hour ago.”

John faltered, but managed to keep his hands still. “When did you leave..?”

“Around five. I crashed on the sofa. Hope you don’t mind.”

“That’s, er, fine,” John said. “Could have been worse if you had left sooner.”

“Damn right,” Finn muttered. John finished stitching him in silence, aware that Finn was looking at him the entire time. 

“Right, you’re all set. The nurse can fill you in on caring for it, and when to come in for the stitches to be removed.”

Before John could leave, Finn reached out and touched his arm gently. 

“So I’m not you’re patient anymore? Care to get a drink with me tonight?”

John flushed and stuttered, “You’d want to meet me again? After…”

Finn shrugged. “You clearly have issues. Lot’s of us do. Doesn’t mean we can’t forget about it for a night or two.”

John paused. He recalled the morning, waking up in Sherlock’s room, and the feeling like he somehow betrayed the man who was his friend much longer than he had been a lover. Flustered, John started to speak, when there was a knock on the door.

Owen walked in. “If you’re almost done here, I need you out front.” He tossed him a disposable, plastic gown as John said, “Right behind you,” and then he left without another word to Finn. 

Owen spoke as they rushed to the front of the emergency room. “There’s a multiple vehicle accident, all involved are being transported here; ETA is five minutes.”

John nodded and picked up his pace. He liked these emergency cases; they were an easy distraction for hours at least, although he felt bad for feeling that. There were people hurt after all. He placed Finn’s file on the nurse’s desk, and then soon enough, people were being rushed in by paramedics. The injuries didn’t look too severe so far.

The A&E doors opened, and a patient was wheeled in. His head was completely covered with white gauze soaked in blood, and there were rough patches of gauze over his face, reddened by either cuts or bruises. His shirt had been ripped open, and his waist and hips were dark red--definitely an internal injury. He looked like a mess, and John couldn’t help but hope Owen will assign him to the patient.

Sure enough, Owen motioned John to follow him as they followed the patient into one of the private trauma rooms. Owen read off the emergency responder’s notes. “Scott Williams, late thirties, was hit on the driver’s side which then collided into oncoming traffic. Priority one; Watson, lead this trauma.”

John perked up. “By myself?”

Owen looked at him seriously with a slight fondness in his eyes. “Yes. I’m needed out there.” He left just as the victim was brought in. Lexie and Harry entered as well. They surrounded the patient and the empty hospital bed and prepared to transfer him.

“Alright on my count, one, two, three--,”

They lifted the man off the stretcher carefully and stiffly placed him on the hospital gurney. John gave the two women orders for tests they needed as he stood by the patient’s head, getting ready to ventilate him. Everything went by quick, and John’s mind was focused and clear, something he cherished these days. By the time the man was stable and sedated, John had more time to inspect his injuries.

“Definitely a broken hip,” John muttered to himself as he examined the man. “There may be internal bleeding, he’s breathing is all right, so no punctured lung. But his face...his cheekbone looks broken, and he’ll need stitches for these cuts. Is the CT available yet?”

“Not yet,” Lexie replied.

Just then, Owen walked in. “Diagnosis?” he asked John.

“Broken hip, concussion, possible broken cheekbone, some fractured ribs, a little internal bleeding but I’ll know more after the CT scan. After the CT, he’ll definitely need surgery.”

“Great, stitch him him in the meantime,” Owen said. “An OR should open up soon. Blood pressure stable?”

“It’s low but stable, yes sir. Er, you wanted me to stitch him up?” John asked.

“Yes. Lexie, I need help in trauma room four.”

The two left John alone. He peered at the man’s head; the gauze from the scene was still being used, browning and matte with dry blood. John reached forward and began unwrapping it, revealing a large gash spreading from the man’s crown to just above his right eye. The man’s eyes were surrounded by darkening bruises and smaller cuts, except for the left one which was swollen shut. The other was closed, but it looked like he was starting to wake up, as the eye moved underneath the lid.

John cleaned the head wound, and stitched him up, then rewrapped his head gently with fresh gauze. He moved down the body, and began to examine a gash on the man’s arm.

As John started to unwrap the bandage, the man suddenly grabbed John by the wrist, tightening his hold before John could comprehend what was happening.

John relaxed his composure and looked closely at the man. “Sir, can you understand me?” John asked politely, trying to soothe him. The man tightened his grip and tugged, so John stepped closer and met the man’s eyes, which only one was able to open very slightly. “Scott, you’re at the hospital. You’ve been in an accident.” The patient loosened his grasp and trailed his hand until he held John’s. He moved his fingers in a formation, but John couldn’t tell what it meant.

“Are you trying to write something?” 

The man squeezed John’s hand; John took that as a yes.

“Okay…” John splayed his hand flat, allowing the man to trail his fingers along John’s palm.

John waited patiently as the man trailed his finger against John’s palm.

“Two…two…” John reported; the man continued, so John assumed he was right.

“One…three.”

Scott swatted John’s hand, startling him. He clenched his eyes shut, and John thought for a moment he passed out again, but then he reopened them. “Okay, all right, try again,” he said encouragingly. Just then, voices rose from the hallway, then Owen walked in, red in the face.

“John—,” 

“He’s trying to tell me something,” John informed him. “Something happen out there?”

Owen faltered, “Oh, his brother just arrived.” 

John nodded with relief, and then looked back down to the injured man, who was looking at him. He was struggling with keeping his eyes open. “Your family’s here. You won’t be alone.”

Scott reached for John’s hand again and squeezed it. 

“Do you want to try again?” he asked.

Scott huffed against the breathing tube and placed his fingers on John’s open palm.

“Two…two…one…” The last one was proving tricky, so the man paused before continuing. “Er, b?” John guessed.

The man squeezed John’s hand tightly, and opened his eyes wider than before, but with great difficulty. John met his eyes and stared at him, confused, as the numbers rang in his ears. Scott’s eyes were only partially opened, swollen along the edge, and nearly bloodshot, but John could just barely make out the gold flecks in a swirl of blue and green.

_ 221B. _

“Oh god! Oh my--!”

John dropped the man’s hand and stood up, backing away while keeping his eyes locked with his. His mind halted; time seemed to have slowed down, voices mere echoes behind him, people moving and talking but he couldn’t comprehend what they were saying. He kept staring at the man on the bed, lost in the oceanic depths that he had seen sixteen months ago, unfocused and empty.

They were focused in front of him, injured but lively. Sherlock’s eyes were...there, in front of him, alive.

_ Sherlock is alive. _

The thought briefly crossed John’s mind when suddenly, the noise in the room erupted, and John focused. He found Sherlock staring at him, his hand reaching for John. John gasped and stepped further back, jamming his back against an instrument stand, knocking it over. He was speechless, unaware of the crash he had made, and kept his stare on the detective before trailing it to Owen, who remained in the doorway, his face overwhelmingly apologetic. 

John looked back at Sherlock. His eyes were starting to close, but he was no doubt fighting it. He opened his mouth to speak but only an exhale escaped from the ventilator.

John stumbled away and rushed out of the room, brushing past Owen and ignoring his calls. He walked fast, his heart thumping loudly in his ears, blocking out Harry’s confused calls. He walked with no destination in mind; he needed some air now! His vision tunneled, his surroundings blurred, and then he saw him out of the corner of his eye. The injured man’s brother--Mycroft Holmes. John caught his eye, and Myrcroft’s face twitched minutely with realization. 

“John—.”

Mycroft didn’t get another word out; John turned immediately, rushed forward, and slammed his clenched fist against the man’s face.

People rushed around him, and just as John raised his arm for another blow, Owen stepped behind him and dragged him out of the room. John saw Mycroft being swarmed by personnel, his face covered with blood. John felt satisfied for a brief second, but didn’t have time to dwell in the glory as he was pushed into an empty trauma room; Owen closed the door behind him with a slam.

John paced to the end and placed his hands on his hips and hung his head, breathing deeply. 

“John…” he began, but trailed off. John shook his head and straightened up. He swayed but continued to pace. 

“I can’t believe he would—I just—I…—sixteen months,” John gasped. “Sixteen, ugh—” He felt dizzy, but continued to pace the room.

“John, relax, take a breath…” Owen said softly. John’s breathing hitched and he continued taking fast breaths. He shook his head, unable to control his rising panic attack.

John was shaking now, feeling lightheaded. “I need some air,” he blurted out, and rushed past him in a run until he made it outside the front of the hospital.

John paced around mindlessly. Slowly, the events that lead up to that day sixteen months ago reappeared from John’s memory. What he had said— _ You machine! _ —what he thought for days after and then banished from thinking about again— _ he committed suicide because you weren’t there for him; he punished you by making you watch—you were useless before, and useless after, you couldn’t even keep a friend alive _ —all of these thoughts came flooding back.

John covered his mouth and swallowed down the sudden bile.  _ If Sherlock hadn’t committed suicide—or if he tried to but failed—then where did he go? It’s still my fault, though, isn’t it? He was suicidal and calling him a machine pushed him off the ledge. _

John choked and belched the remnants of whatever alcohol was left in his stomach into a nearby planter. He coughed and gagged until nothing left came up, then he started walking away from the hospital. He didn’t know where else he could go, he only knew he didn’t want to be there anymore. Not now. He didn’t want to go back home either. What else was there?

John headed to the closest bar, sat down with a grunt and ordered a scotch. There was no one else around. He didn’t care if the bartender judged him. All he wanted to know was if John was going to go back to work, based on his hospital scrubs indicting his profession. John gave him a look, and that seemed to suffice. He downed the scotch, then ordered whiskey, tequila, more whiskey. By the time his throat burned and the sunlight was too sensitive, John took off and managed to stumble his way until he headed up in front of St. Barts.

It was well into the afternoon by the time he arrived. Everything was bright. Last time he was here, it was a cloudy day, and was when Sherlock had jumped. John stood near the exact spot where he stood when he saw Sherlock’s body. Bloody and still, the image was still fresh in John’s mind. Feeling queasy, 

John stumbled away, and headed back to the Royal Hospital.

By the time he made it, he was slightly less drunk, but enough to catch people’s attention as he limped inside. Owen was quick and led him with a firm grip on his arm into a private room, and silently, started an IV drip of fluids in John’s arm. John didn’t say a word. After Owen was finished, he stood in the corner, giving John space, and waiting to see if John, well, said or did anything indicating he needed help. 

John just sat on the edge of the bed, keeping his head down and looking at the floor. He could feel Owen’s eyes on him; patient yet cautionary. John took a deep breath, and let it out shakily. He was exhausted. 

He leaned forward and placed his hands over his face, his breathing becoming shaky. Tears slipped out of the corner of his eyes, but he kept his face covered. He felt Owen move closer, and then man’s hand on his shoulder blades, rubbing them in a comforting motion. John leaned into the touch, and didn’t say anything as his tears fell down his cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments are gold and I am Smaug :) 
> 
> some music that helped me write this, and the scene from Grey's Anatomy that deserves credit 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4KRBxC-1hfc
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lCwZxUQeDqY


	5. Salt in the Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suicidal thoughts/themes/attempt

**CHAPTER 5: SALT IN THE WOUND**

_ “Who gets to determine when the old ends and the new begins? It’s not a day on a calendar, not a birthday, not a new year. It’s an event —big or small, something that changes us. Ideally it gives us hope. A new way of living and looking at the world. Letting go of old habits, old memories. What’s important is that we never stop believing we can have a new beginning. But it’s also important to remember that amid all the crap are a few things really worth holding on to.” ~ Meredith Grey _

“I’m not dreaming, am I?” John asked hoarsely. Owen didn’t respond; he knew John enough to know he wasn’t really asking. 

“Christ,” John muttered and rubbed his face with his hands, wiping away any remnants of the tears. Owen took a step back so they could see each other’s faces.

“Do you want to see him?” Owen asked bluntly, startling John.

“No, I--I don’t know.” John looked at him briefly, then away.

“He’s still in surgery; he’ll be done soon,” Owen said. “He does have a broken hip, the right side, from the impact. There was a little bit of bleeding around his spleen, but we’ll keep an eye on it. He has a concussion, but it doesn’t look like he has a traumatic head injury. There was no bleeding on the scan. His wrist is fractured, and so are his ribs and cheekbone. The rest of his facial injuries may have come from the airbag. He’ll need physical therapy to walk, so he’ll need a support system.”

John scoffed. “Right,” he said stiffly. “I have to be there for him.”

“You don’t have to,” Owen said. “But will you regret if you’re not?”

They fell silent. John glanced at him and caught a concerned look in Owen’s eyes.

“There’s something else,” John realized. “What is it?”

Owen gave him a stiff nod. “He has older injuries that don’t seem to have healed properly. A couple fractured ribs, some cuts, many deep, that are no more than six months old. The freshest one I saw can’t be more than a month.”

John could tell there was more. He gave Owen a look, urging him to just say it. 

Owen shuffled his feet but didn’t break eye contact. “I’ve seen a lot of injuries, John. In the army and as a trauma surgeon. I can tell when they are simple battle wounds or…”

“Or?”

Owen sighed. “Torture wounds.”

John paled and quickly looked away.

_ Jesus Christ, Sherlock.  _

He bent forward, resting his head in his hands, covering his face.

“Christ,” John muttered again. “What do I do?” he looked at Owen.

Owen sighed. “What’s your gut telling you?”

John nearly laughed; Owen used to say that when they were in the army together. It always seemed to help John make decisions under pressure, with just a single sentence.

“I need to see him,” John said. “Alive.”

Owen led him to the intensive care unit, the pair of them silent. They reached Sherlock’s room, where John hesitated by the sliding door.

Owen touched his shoulder reassuringly. “Take as long as you need. He may not wake up for a while.”

“That’s all right,” John mumbled. “Thanks”

Owen stepped away, giving John space. John took in a deep breath, then entered the room. Sherlock was lying on the hospital bed, unconscious and slightly upright, with a breathing tube under his nose. His wrist was in a brace, his hip and head bandaged; the cuts were cleaned; the bruises looked less red, but his face was still swollen. 

John’s breathing hitched, and he looked away for a moment as he stepped closer. He looked at Sherlock again, and trailed his eyes down his body. Sherlock’s hair was matted and oily in the fluorescent lights. The hospital gown was too big on Sherlock’s body, his body skin and bones beneath the thin fabric. 

Sherlock’s neck and arms had healed cuts, some pinker than others. Then he saw it: a faint scar on Sherlock’s hand, the one John had stitched up for him when they ran into each other. John grinned very slightly at that memory.

John took one stepped closer until he was in touching distance, but he stopped, almost suddenly, as Sherlock’s hand twitched. He looked at Sherlock’s face and saw his eyes slowly blink open. He looked at John, who looked back. Sherlock stiffly moved his hand forward; John assumed he was moving it closer to John’s hand. John flinched back, not wanting to touch him, only to realize Sherlock was reaching for the morphine pump lying on his bed. Sherlock gave it one push, and his eyes slowly closed as he felt the effect of the drug.

John couldn't help but feel disappointment and worry, and stood there as Sherlock went back to sleep.

After a while, John sat down in a chair in the corner of the room. He fell into a restless sleep, and was jolted awake suddenly. He glanced around, but only Sherlock was there, also waking up. They looked at each other, but didn’t say anything. Sherlock grimaced and tried to scoot upward on the bed, only to let out a grunt and give up. There was a handle hanging above him for that purpose, but he ignored it. He licked his lips, and looked at John. 

Sherlock spoke roughly, wincing as he moved his face. “John.”

John immediately stood from the chair and left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. He couldn’t look back to see Sherlock’s reaction; he wasn’t sure if he even wanted to see him. 

He brushed past Owen and entered an empty on-call room. He sat with a huff on the bed and heard the door open. Knowing it was Owen, he didn’t greet him.

“What can’t I be happy about this?” John questioned whilst looking at the floor. “Why can’t I just be there for him...and glad that he’s back? He just...I-I’m so angry,” John confessed. He covered his face in his hands, and felt Owen’s hand touch his shoulder. 

“You can feel all those things,” Owen said. “And still feel hurt by what he did.”

John’s hands trembled slightly. “I need a drink,” he mumbled.

Owen took John’s hands into his own and squeezed them. “You don’t. Why don’t you go back in there and listen to him. After that, I’ll buy you coffee.”

John considered it, and then nodded slowly. “All right.”

They walked back to Sherlock’s room and entered. Sherlock looked a little more awake, and watched them. His face was still red, and slightly becoming purple over the bruises. But his eyes weren’t as swollen, and John could see clearly now who he was. 

John remained standing. He looked at his feet for a moment, shuffled them, and then crossed his hands over his chest.

“Go on, then,” he said gently. “Explain.”

Sherlock looked at his own hands for a moment, then met John’s eyes. 

“Does he need to be here?” he asked in regards to Owen.

“Yes,” John said without faltering.

Sherlock nodded once.    
“From the beginning then…”

John clenched his jaw. “No...not--not what happened. Why. I need to know why.” His voice shook minutely.

Sherlock looked surprised. “Oh…”

John shuffled his feet impatiently, feeling tense. “Please...spit it out.”

Sherlock hardened his expression, sending a shiver down John’s spine. He almost looked like his old self, cold and calculating, about to state the facts. 

“Moriarty had three snipers. One on you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade.” He paused, taking a deep breath slowly and grimacing while doing so. “They had to watch you grieve for me. So I faked my death, tracked them down. I had no idea how many there would be, or who knew his orders, so I spent sixteen months taking down his network. I didn’t know it would take this long.”

He paused, and softened his expression. “I’m sorry, John. I had no idea how much this would affect you.”

John’s relaxed a bit as he tried to process everything Sherlock just said. He blinked a few times, unsure what to make of that.  _ He had no idea? After everything we’ve been through, after all that? _

“So everything you said, everything you did leading up that...day...you-you didn’t mean it?” John was referring to Sherlock’s dismissive attitude when Mrs. Hudson was supposedly in danger, his claims that hid deduction skills was just part of a magic trick, that he was just fooling John--all of that wasn’t true. John knew it; he never did believe it, but he needed Sherlock to clarify.

Sherlock nodded, then bit his lip. “There’s something else…”

John looked worried. “What? What is it?”

Sherlock hesitated, then said, “You’re still in danger. There’s one more person out there and I only know his name: Moran. Although that probably won’t help us as he likely as multiple aliases. 

John took a deep breath. “All right. Okay. Anything else?”

Sherlock hesitated again; John wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, clearly something, but instead Sherlock shook his head. 

There was something John wanted to say, badly. He felt it would put his grief in perspective if Sherlock knew just how John felt about him. But he kept quiet too. 

John wasn’t sure if he forgave Sherlock. Part of him sort of already did; he was glad Sherlock was back. But at the same time, events from even a month ago stopped John from pursuing total forgiveness. He didn’t want to blame Sherlock for his reaction to his death, but certainly a month ago John did blame him, and the blame was hard to forget; because Sherlock never said a word, never reached out, John believed his friend was dead, and that it was his fault, which led him to fall himself, to his lowest just four weeks ago… 

It had been three months since Sherlock’s grave was dug up. John hadn’t visited since the anniversary, before it was gone. He had planned on not going anyway, and now there really wasn’t anything to go back to. Sherlock was gone; all of him.

John busied himself with work and drink. He didn’t want his mind to wander. And he didn’t dream much when he went to sleep drunk. 

It was a Tuesday when John realized he wasn’t at his lowest until now. He needed to get something from the lab--or at least he thought he did, he suddenly couldn’t remember. He had gone down to the basement for a shortcut when he bumped into a wheelchair. The sound triggered a memory: he and Sherlock in the basement at St. Barts, flirting; him stitching Sherlock’s hand; them making out in the elevator--- 

John rushed to the elevator and once inside, pressed the button hard for a random floor. But even the elevator looked the same. John turned red, with fondness of the memory but also a greatness of grief washing over him. He was never going to feel that feeling again, he realized. He felt alive with Sherlock. Now he was just as good as dead too.

_ Maybe that is what it ought to be _ , John thought. 

John took a deep breath and continued working until he was off at eight. He acted normal; he even felt normal; he’d smirk at a nurse’s joke, he’d make small talk as he waited for test results. He nodded at Owen as he left and even gave him a small smile. He didn’t notice Owen’s concerned look though; Owen was always concerned, so John stopped noticing, and stopped giving him reassurance after a while. He wasn’t fine deep down and wouldn't be, but a small smile or a relaxed face seemed to put the man at ease. 

John made it back to Baker Street, undressed until he was just in his jeans and a white t-shirt, and headed to the bedroom. The bottle of pills were still in his drawer; he took them out and sat on the edge of the bed.

_ See you soon, Sherlock _ . And John swallowed a few pills, then a few more, then a few more, until his throat felt too dry, and he placed the bottle on the bedside table and laid down on his back. He glanced at the ceiling, and faintly heard the sound of the violin. 

Then there was a pounding sound; voices too. John couldn’t place the origin. He was trying to focus on the violin, which was becoming fainter and fainter as the pounding became quick footsteps, a slammed door, and then--

“John!” Owen yelled. John couldn’t open his eyes. He could feel his consciousness slipping away, and the violin sound coming back.

Owen stepped forward and lifted John into his arms; he turned him on his side and put his fingers in John’s mouth until John gagged.

The violin music was gone; John choked and vomited. He kept his eyes shut and groaned; he wished Owen would stop, but he didn’t. The man continued to gag John until he seemed to stop retching, and John slowly regained awareness, but he kept his closed.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Owen murmured as he patted his back. John hunched his shoulders and coughed. He immediately started to sob; how could this be happening?! He was so close yet John wasn’t sure he wanted to try again. His whole body ached, and continued to shake as he cried out. 

Owen moved onto the bed and sat up against the post. He pulled John in his lap and held him tightly, slightly rocking him. John whimpered and sobbed loudly, clutching at his stomach.

They stayed like that for a long time; Owen comforting John, checking his pulse, rocking him; whilst John cried himself into a distressed sleep, moaning and whimpering as the effects of the pills wore off. His body hadn’t taken in enough for him to fall asleep, but he wished it had worked sooner. He didn’t want to try again; the pain right now was too much. 

At some point in the night, Owen had transferred him to the cleaner side of the bed, where he tossed and turned, his mind playing games on him and his awareness not going away. Owen placed a few clean blankets on the one side, and laid there next to John, each of them facing the other. There was no more violin music. No more pills, as he heard Owen toss them. No more Sherlock. 

“Why,” John muttered, his eyes still closed. He didn’t feel like he needed to phrase the entire question. Owen understood him without many words.

“Because you will get through this---”

John shook his head, not wanting to hear it. “A year,” he started to say, but Owen cut him off.

“You loved him.” Owen stated. 

John sniffed and nodded. “I did.”

He had confessed it to Harry, and now Owen. Just not to the person who mattered the most, who should have heard it.

A few tears fell down John’s cheeks.

They fell silent for a moment, then Owen asked, “Did something happen at the hospital? Something that triggered you?”

John let out a shaky breath, and said, “a fucking elevator.”

Owen didn’t ask what that meant, and hugged John as they laid side by side. It reminded John of their stolen moments together back in the army, and he tried to focus on that: the man’s touch, the warmth, the heartbeat. Eventually he fell asleep, and neither of them spoke about it since.

* * *

Owen’s phone beeped, startling John out of his thoughts. Sherlock was still looking at him; neither of them spoke. With a curt nod, John turned and headed for the door. 

“John?” Sherlock spoke up from behind him. John stopped in his steps, but didn’t turn around to face him. When Sherlock didn’t speak for several moments, John continued out the door, sensing Owen following him. 

Soon after, Owen bought John a cup of coffee as they sat on a bench outside the hospital. They sat in silence. John still felt hungover; yesterday he drank so much he slept with a stranger, and then he nearly drank himself back to that state just because he saw Sherlock.

Sherlock. Alive.  _ Christ.  _ John couldn’t wrap his brain around it. This morning Sherlock was dead to him. It almost seemed like the past sixteen months didn’t happen. 

John took a large gulp of the coffee; the bitterness burned his throat, but he savored every drop. He continued to sit in silence, with Owen next to him. It was a cool day out; birds were chirping and the sun was shining behind the clouds as they slowly started to part. A cool breeze felt brisk against John’s face. He shivered reactively; he couldn’t remember the last time he felt a breeze like that. Everything had been feeling stiff and numb--until now. John felt everything hit him, once and for all. Sherlock was alive. He had another chance to tell him. Sherlock had told him why, and perhaps that meant there was chance John’s feelings were reciprocated. Perhaps not. But John needed to say it to Sherlock’s face. To the one person he failed to tell. Now he must. 

John stood up quickly, spilling his coffee over his shoes, but he didn’t care. Owen looked at him with concern. 

“I’ve got to go,” John said roughly. As Owen’s expression became even more concerned, John added, “Inside. I need to talk to Sherlock.” John gave him a reassuring and grateful smile, and Owen relaxed. John turned back to the hospital and headed for the doors. He held his chin up, his shoulders were square, and he felt more sure of himself than he had in a very long time. 

He was strongly bumped into by a tall, blond man, but only stumbled. Muttering a half-hearted, “excuse me,” John continued to the entrance, but the man grabbed hold of John’s forearm, stopping him. John halted and looked at the man, confused. The man kept his head down as he pulled John towards him and plunged a knife into John’s abdomen on the left, lower side. 

Startled, John gasped, and his vision became blurry by the instant, sheer pain. His legs buckled and he crumbled to the floor, falling onto his back. The man had pulled the knife out and was already walking away before John could fully realize what was happening. 


End file.
